


The Bullet With Your Name On It

by gayalondiel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-12
Updated: 2011-06-12
Packaged: 2017-10-20 09:02:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/211044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gayalondiel/pseuds/gayalondiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That shoulder wound.  Sherlock wants to see every part of John but especially the wound.  John insists on hiding it, and other parts of his military life, but Sherlock doesn’t intend to stop trying...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bullet With Your Name On It

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** The Holmes characters fall in the public domain: This version falls under the creative control of Messers Moffatt and Gatiss, and the BBC. No ownership is implied or inferred. This is done for love only. The quotes from _Blackadder Goes Forth_ likewise belong to the BBC.
> 
>  **AN:** Beta’d by the most wonderful of wonderfuls, irisbleufic.

The first thing Sherlock realised about sex with John was that it was everything he didn’t know he had been missing. It was brilliant, beautiful, frantic, desperate and _wonderful_.

The second thing he realised was that John refused to take off his shirt.

What with the rush of hormones and emotion and the sudden onset of events, it took him a while to recognise that there was a pattern. Their first few trysts were rushed affairs fuelled by a heady blend of adrenaline and lust. Various pieces of clothing would be shed, but others left, and Sherlock was content to slip his hands beneath the layers of fabric and explore skin there by touch alone. If John managed to distract him with something new and mind-blowing every time his hands slid up towards his collarbone, Sherlock could be forgiven for not noticing straight away.

Eventually the sex changed, tapered down so that it was sometimes a long slow simmer instead of a rolling boil. On the rare occasions when Sherlock had considered what it might be like to be in a relationship with someone, he had imagined long slow afternoons that bled into nights where he and his partner slowly revealed inch after inch of skin and he got to investigate with fingers, eyes, lips and teeth until he knew other person all over, completely, by heart.

John, though, had different ideas.

Oh, he was up for sessions that began with kisses on the sofa in the evening, that gradually led to the bedroom and continued with overlapping surges of pleasure, wave after wave and somehow it would get to dawn without them noticing or stopping or even pausing for breath. John was nothing if not enthusiastic and giving, but instead of letting Sherlock explore and map his skin, he would flick off the light before Sherlock even had his shirt half unbuttoned. Only then was Sherlock allowed to undress him completely, when the light was too low for him to imprint John visually onto his memory. Once was understandable, twice was irritating, but by the third time Sherlock was downright frustrated. He tried hints, knowing that being critical this early in the physical side of their relationship was probably a bad idea. He tried flattery, coercion, he even wondered about suggesting light bondage so John couldn’t reach the light switch. Whatever happened, hurried sex in the living room or long, slow marathons in the bedroom, John clung doggedly to his shirts and sweaters until they were veiled in darkness.

Sherlock, not being an idiot, had a fairly good idea of what was going on in John’s head. He just didn’t have any idea of how to fix it. The closer they got, mentally, physically, emotionally, the more Sherlock was frustrated by John’s reticence, and the more stubborn John became. They spoke about it, just once, when Sherlock continued to tug at John’s shirt even when John had gone to push his hands away. Not wanting to offend John with awkward words, he opted for actions, showing him he wasn’t bothered by the injury by unbuttoning and stroking and kissing as he went. He got further than he had been allowed before, but still not far enough before John had grabbed him by the wrists and dragged himself backwards across the sofa, putting long inches between them.

“Sherlock, stop,” he said, his words not harsh but pleading. Immediately Sherlock backed off, pulling away until John’s grip on his arms slackened and released. They sat looking at one another for a few moments, arousal and tension thrumming between them. John looked away first, down at his hands which were clenching convulsively.

“I’m sorry,” he said eventually. The contrition and self-awareness in his voice was enough to give Sherlock chills. He reached out instinctively and pulled John back towards him and into his arms.

“Don’t be,” he murmured, even while the commentary in his brain chanted _I want to see, to know you all over, I want to see where you’re scarred and where you’re not, I want to see how beautiful you are, I want to know..._. “Don’t be. It’s all right.”

John hesitated only briefly before settling back into his arms. The moment was gone but there was space and time left to indulge in some kissing. Slowly the tension and passion between them eased into a low comfortable warmth, and eventually they stretched out together, John’s head pilllowed on Sherlock’s shoulder, slender fingers combing through his hair.

John was contrite and ashamed. Sherlock was frustrated and uncertain. And neither said a word.

* * *

 _I'm carving something on this bullet sir._

 _What are you carving?_

 _I'm carving "Baldrick", sir._

Sherlock entered the flat to the sound of tinny laughter from the television. John was slumped in his chair, his laptop on his knees but ignored. He was huffing slightly at the television but not quite laughing, and when Sherlock passed him, heading for the kitchen, he glanced over and thought he saw a trace of bitterness in the tight lines around his eyes.

“Are you all right?” he asked casually.

“Yep,” replied John, evidently not in a chatty mood.

 _You see, you know they say that somewhere there's a bullet with your name on it?_

 _Yes?_

 _Well, I thought if I owned the bullet with my name on it, I'd never get hit by it, 'cos I won't ever shoot myself._

 _Oh, shame._

John laughed softly again, and there was something wrong with that too, something mirthless and unlike his normal chuckle. Sherlock considered pursuing the subject but he knew a losing battle when he saw one, and turned away. Looking for a distraction, he prodded through the detritus on the kitchen table.

Newspapers and loose sheets covered in his scribbles littered the surface, obscuring the stack of unopened post. Normally John took care of post fairly regularly, but buried at the bottom of the pile were no less than four official looking letters addressed to Major J H Watson. The most recent was marked URGENT and was several days old, but showed no sign that John had even handled it more than the second it took to drop it with the other ignored correspondence. He looked for the return address and saw that it was the Service Personnel and Veterans Agency. A ripple of concern ran through him and he almost ripped into the envelope right then, but the idea that John might not be pleased with that brought him up short. He had such traditional ideas about personal space, after all.

“John?” he called, hating himself for stating the obvious. “There’s a letter about your pension here?” John made a non-committal noise and kept his focus on the television where far too many jokes were being made on the singular premise of a staff captain with an unfortunate surname. Sherlock hesitated, and returned to his original plan. He walked over to the mantelpiece and yanked out the knife from its accustomed place driven into the wood, feeling John’s eyes shift from the television to him without having to look.

“Sherlock?”

“John?”

“What are you... oh bloody hell, Sherlock!” John strode over and snatched the letter as Sherlock slid the knife under the folded paper. As he jerked it away he winced, and Sherlock watched a small line of blood blooming from John’s index finger where he had caught the blade. “Don’t I get any privacy?” he demanded, balling his fist around the wound.

“It looks important,” said Sherlock mildly. “You’ve been ignoring it.”

John closed his eyes, took a breath and exhaled, and Sherlock could see the sudden tension leaving his body in ripples. His shoulders drooped, and when he opened his eyes there was resignation but a hint of dark amusement there.

“It’s not important,” he said, still not looking at the letter. “Just admin stuff, I should think. Nothing to worry about.” He collected the letter’s fellows from the kitchen table and walked slightly faster than his usual pace to his room. With the door closed Sherlock followed him up and listened, but he did not hear any noise to indicate that the letter had been opened. There was the clanking sound of something metallic - a tin - then the creak of bed springs, and the faint whisper of a sigh. Not wanting to be caught listening at the door, Sherlock hurried back downstairs, aware and slightly concerned that this worry about John was eclipsing everything else.

One way or another, he had to work this out.

* * *

Sherlock sighed into the pillow as the slick hands pressed firmly into his back, rubbing and soothing knots of tension out of his muscles. The oil was unscented - John maintained that an olfactory element would add to the experience but Sherlock had refused, and so he was able to breathe through the pillow and add the scent of _John_ to the moment instead of the insipid chemical-and-lavender scent of commercial oils. John’s hands were surprisingly smooth and steady, although he had occasional calluses from writing and the tools of his trade as doctor and soldier. He confidently moved from Sherlock’s shoulders down his back to describe lines around his spine. Sherlock let out a soft moan of contentment as he felt another layer of tension leave him, and heard a chuckle from above.

“I told you you’d like it,” said John, the smile clear in his tone of voice. Sherlock hummed in response as John eased off the pressure, moving to lighter strokes that predicted an end to half an hour’s gradual bliss. Finally he drew his hands to the small of Sherlock’s back, leant over and pressed a kiss to his shoulder, and settled back on the side of the bed. Sherlock rolled over, not bothering to worry about getting oil on the sheets, and smiled contentedly at his lover.

“Thank you,” he said. “If it’s like this every time, feel free to prove me wrong more often.”

John laughed. “I can’t promise anything,” he replied, leaning in and slipping a still-oily hand back to Sherlock’s shoulder.. They kissed gently at first, and then more intensely, and soon John was flat on his back with Sherlock looming over him, kissing his neck and thumbing at the buttons of his shirt. He got one undone, then another, and then John began to shift under him. As Sherlock had predicted, he was making a move for the light switch. Sherlock moved his hands to John’s shoulders, arresting his movement.

“Don’t,” he whispered. “It’s fine.” John’s hands came up to meet his, squeezing them slightly, and Sherlock let him adapt for a few minutes, contenting to nuzzle under the shirt at the curve of his neck. John’s hands tightened.

“Sherlock, let me...”

“Hush,” Sherlock insisted, moving back up to steal a kiss from John’s lips. “How can I return the favour if I can’t see?”

“The favour?” John frowned in confusion for a second and then glanced over to the bottle of massage oil, still open on the bedside table. “Oh. Sherlock... that’s nice of you, but you don’t have to.”

“But I want to.” Sherlock returned to nuzzling, this time heading behind John’s ear, but without looking he could feel the gradual increase in tension. Pressing what he fervently hoped were reassuring kisses across John’s skin, he slipped one hand from beneath John’s and returned it to the buttons of his shirt. He revelled in success for a good three seconds before John’s hand flew to where Sherlock was working on the fourth button.

“Sherlock...”

“I want to do this for you,” Sherlock repeated, pulling back to see John’s eyes. There was something shuttered about them, not sad or distressed or tearful. Blank.

“I don’t want you to,” he said bluntly. Sherlock drew back further and sat back, straddling his lap, and John took the opportunity to button his shirt back up. The hurt must have showed in his face, because John continued quickly. “I don’t... it’s not that I don’t want you, nothing like that. I just... can’t we just leave it as something that you enjoyed?”

“I suppose,” replied Sherlock, quirking an eyebrow at John. “Is there anything else you would like instead?” He let his eyes slide down John’s body, just low enough, and then flicked back up to his face quick as a flash. John grinned, and reached out an arm towards the light switch. Sherlock caught his wrist as it moved. “Leave it on,” he murmured, and John’s grin wavered.

“Why?”

“Because I never get to see you.”

“Sherlock, I...”

“Why don’t you want to look at me?” he demanded. It was a low blow, and if sex had an umpire Sherlock would have been penalised for willful deceit. He knew John’s problem was not with looking but being looked at, but if he could shock John it might be enough to get past his stubbornness. John certainly looked shocked, then hurt, and finally a distressed expression crossed his face. He sat up, pushing Sherlock back onto his legs and took hold of his shoulders.

“Not that,” he said urgently. “Never that. God, Sherlock, you’re gorgeous.”

“But you won’t...”

“It’s not about you. Would you please drop it?”

“But why?”

Anger, then, in John’s eyes. Good. They were getting somewhere.

“You know why,” he said. “You know, and I know you know, and I am not having this conversation, so why won’t you drop it?”

“Because you’re being ridiculous!” snapped Sherlock. “It’s a scar, John, that’s all it is! Healed flesh and a few lines, nothing more. It’s _interesting_ , and you’re hiding it from me through sheer vanity, which is ridiculous, because I could probably already draw a ninety-five percent accurate rendering of it from touching it in the dark, so I don’t see why you’re being so stubborn!”

Abruptly, John shoved him, and Sherlock toppled off his legs, missed the corner of the bed and hit the floor with a thud. A sharp pain in his hip promised to be a bold bruise in the morning.

John glowered down at him.

“Get out,” he said in a chilly voice. “Get out, go away, leave me alone.”

“Why...”

“Go!” shouted John, and with a flare of anger Sherlock snatched up his dressing gown from the floor and stormed out and down the stairs. When he had collapsed on the sofa, still shirtless and streaked with oil, that he reflected that that discussion could not have gone much worse if he had tried.

* * *

John had been at work all day, and Sherlock had tried. He really, really had. He had distracted himself with work and cold cases, he had nagged Lestrade for forbidden files, and even bothered Mycroft for a bit to keep himself from thinking about John’s room, about the box he knew was lying hidden under the bed. He searched the newspapers for hidden codes and secret messages, he trawled the internet for something, anything to keep him busy, and he went out into the cold and the rain, walking fast to keep himself away from the flat. But when he got back there was a good hour before John was due home, and boundaries and personal space be damned because he had to know exactly what was going on in John’s mind. He knew the box would tell him.

Casting a furtive glance around, he made his way swiftly up the stairs and into John’s room. Dropping at once to his knees he dug under the bed, past discarded shoes and books, and drew out a biscuit tin that rattled as he moved it. There were no locks, keys or passwords to solve. Either John had trusted him not to look, or had simply been resigned to not having anything that would prevent Sherlock from getting at it. He sat down on the bed, placed the tin next to him on the duvet, and with only the tiniest twinge of guilt, opened the lid.

Inside, the letters were on top, and he pulled out the most recent, opened, and scanned it. A repeat appointment. John had missed two already, which were apparently vital to ensure he continued to receive his pension. Something he himself would probably ignore, but John certainly shouldn’t be doing that. Curiosity getting the better of him, he put the other letters aside and dug further into the tin. A small box was nestled in the corner and he opened it to find a small campaign medal. Gold, two shades of blue, and red: the Afghanistan OSM. A silver oak leaf was clipped to it and sure enough, looking back in the tin he found a folded issue of the _London Gazette_. He flipped to the supplements and scanned until he found the words he was seeking. _The Queen has been graciously pleased to give orders for the publication of the names of the following..._ Beneath that, nestled in a short list of names, was the line _Major John Hamish WATSON, The Royal Army Medical Corps_. He wondered if John would ever tell him any of the stories behind that mention.

Laying the paper carefully aside, he looked back in the tin. A few letters from Harry, dog-eared photographs of laughing soldiers lazing around in the sun. Dog tags. An expired HMAF rail card. More papers. And right at the bottom, a bundled up hankerchief with something small and hard inside it. Frowning, Sherlock tugged the knot open, and that was when he heard it: the slam of the front door.

John was home early.

John called his name, paused, and then his footsteps turned to the stairs and started up. There was no way, no time for Sherlock to hide what he had been doing. He began to re-knot the handkerchief but the door was opening and his fingers were slipping and then John stood before him.

Something small and metallic dropped from the handkerchief and skittered across the floor to strike John’s shoe. Sherlock did not look at it, but raised his eyes to look at John.

There was anger in his face, but it was tempered now with resignation. Something that might have been bitter amusement flickered at the corner of his mouth.

“Privacy, Sherlock?” he said wryly, reaching down to pick up the something from the floor.

“I’m not sorry,” said Sherlock.

“I’m sure,” replied John, moving to sit on the other side of the tin. His right hand remained in a fist but he reached out with his left, flicking idly through the papers before returning them to the tin. He picked up his railcard and laughed. “God, I’d forgotten this was here. Should throw it out.”

“You were mentioned in despatches,” said Sherlock.

“Yes,” said John, without a hint of pride in his voice. “Something about saving lives under fire. Silly, really, it’s my job. Was my job. We all did it. What was in the letter?”

Choosing to let the obvious deflection pass, Sherlock collected the letters and rifled through them for the open one. “You’ve got an appointment next week with the pensions board. You really should go.”

“Okay.”

“I didn’t know you kept your dog tags.”

John picked them up and fiddled with them for a moment. “Well, they’re not much use to anyone else. I don’t like them.”

“Why not?”

“When you wear them it means there’s a reasonable chance that you’ll need them because you’ll come back so blown to pieces that they’re the only way anyone will recognise you.”

“I see.”

“Anything else?”

Sherlock glanced at John’s right hand, still clenched tightly. “Why do you have Bill Murray’s handkerchief?” he asked, not certain yet if a direct question would get him the answer he wanted. John raised his eyebrows enquiringly, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It’s monogrammed, John,” he said dryly. “WM. William Murray, of course.”

“Of course,” echoed John. “He was there when I was shot, he gave me his handkerchief at some point. Not for the blood, god knows why, I can’t remember, but I held onto it. I suppose I should give it back, but...”

“I’m sure he doesn’t mind.”

“Probably not.”

“So...”

“So you want to know what was in it.” It was not a question, and John’s face was calm, his gaze open. Sherlock realised he might not get another chance to see this.

“Yes,” he said, and then added “please,” as an afterthought, because it was the sort of thing one should say. John smiled tightly, and held out his right hand, open. In the middle of his palm lay a small, dull, misshapen lump of metal.

Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat. He reached out, hesitated, not knowing the etiquette. There probably wasn’t etiquette for this situation.

“May I?”

John nodded tersely, but his eyes never left Sherlock’s face. Sherlock carefully took the lump of metal, weighed it in his palm, felt the edges that were rough and sharp and chipped, and the areas that were smooth. He turned it over and over between his fingers and felt the warmth from its having been clutched in John’s hand. Finally, he raised it between finger and thumb and held it against the front of John’s left shoulder, metal nestling into wool, placed just where he had extrapolated it would have passed cloth and skin and entered the body, tearing flesh and shattering bone.

Suddenly aware of himself, he glanced at John’s face. He had tracked him and was now watching with a pained expression. Quickly Sherlock withdrew his hand.

“Sorry,” he offered.

John shook his head. “It’s fine,” he said. “I know you’ve been interested for ages.”

“And it’s always bothered you.”

John shifted uncomfortably. “Yes, of course it has,” he said. “I nearly _died_ , Sherlock. Without Bill I would have died. This... thing, I’m always going to carry it with me. Death, and brokenness, and failure...” He cut off abruptly and stood, walking away. Sherlock followed, halting him with a tight grip on his arms before moving his hands to slip around John’s chest when he stilled.

“It’s okay,” he said softly against John’s hair. “You don’t have to tell me.”

“But you want to see.”

“Yes. I so rarely get to see wounds on the living. But I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Really.”

John’s blunt statement, tinged with bitterness, startled Sherlock. He thought back over the past few weeks, considering his motives for getting past John’s reticence. John didn’t move, though, and he tracked their synchronised breathing, connected through John’s back to his chest, as he thought.

“I know I’ve been a bit selfish,” he said at length. “I want to see because that’s what I do. But I want you to be happy with it, and I think you could be.”

John shook his head. “It almost killed me,” he said. “It took my job, half my skills, my whole life. It took everything and that’s before you even get to the physical disfigurement.” He looked at Sherlock’s hand, still clutching the bullet tightly. “One minute I was a person, and the next...”

“It sent you to me,” Sherlock reminded him softly, partly to get John to stop saying things like that. John was not prone to long low moods and he wasn’t certain how to deal with it, so changing his course was the best option. Out of the corner of his eye he could see John smiling slightly.

“Yes,” he agreed. “Yes, it did that.” Sherlock pressed a kiss to his neck. He felt the tendons below the skin shift as John tightened his jaw.

“Let me be clear about something,” said John. “It’s not beautiful.”

“Okay.”

“It’s not pretty, and it’s definitely not sexy. It’s ugly, and disfigured, and it hurts. I suppose it might be interesting to certain people...” Sherlock smiled against his skin, knowing John could feel it. “But if you really want to see, I’ll show you.”

“Really?” Sherlock kept a tight lid on the thrill John’s offer sent through him, allowing time for him to change his mind.

“Really,” said John. “It’s fine.” He pulled away from Sherlock, threw the last few items back in the tin, and relocated it to the bedside table before settling himself on the bed. There was tension in his face, and Sherlock leant down to kiss it away but found himself blocked by John’s palm on his chest. “Just looking, Sherlock,” he said. “Don’t try to make this about sex, because it’s not, it’s just observation. Just clinical.” Worry began to creep into his eyes and Sherlock stepped back, dropping to his knees and carefully slipping the bullet into his own shirt pocket before slipping John’s jacket from his shoulders and reaching for his top button.

* * *

Later on, when Sherlock had explored, observed, palpated and deduced everything he could about the wound, size, shape, impact of the bullet, how hurried the surgery had been, and how the damaged flesh intermingled with healthy tissue, he would have told John that he was wrong.

 

Maybe it wasn’t sexy, but it was beautiful, and fascinating, and _John_.

He would have told him that he loved it for its unique pattern and for how it moved and taught him things cadavers never could. For how it taught him things about John he never could have deduced normally, why he moved this way instead of that and which elements of very fine motor control he had likely lost. He loved it because it was a symbol not only of John nearly dying, but of John having lived, because the scars of the dead did not fade like this. And because it was private between them, something shared and special.

But John was not ready to hear that, and so he reached into his pocket and drew out the mangled bullet.

“Why did you keep it?” he asked. John, who had at some point relocated to lying on the bed, glanced over and shrugged.

“They offered it to me,” he said simply. “After the surgery. A souvenir, I guess.”

“That’s fairly morbid.”

“This from you?” John raised an eyebrow, imparting essays of comment with that single gesture. Sherlock grinned. He ran his fingers over the metal once more and reached for the handkerchief to wrap it up, but John’s hands caught his and took it from him. He turned it over in his fingers and Sherlock wasn’t certain what to expect. Possibly John wanted to hide it or throw it away, and the thought of it made him sad for some indefinable reason. He thought back to the programme John had been watching, _the bullet with my name on it_ , and absurd though it was felt it made John safe. He had survived the bullet, he could survive anything. Ludicrous as it was, it was talisman and testament to what John had been through, and the idea that he would throw away the evidence of that seemed somehow terrible.

He would have done anything for John to understand what this piece of his past symbolised, illogic be damned, and it was on the tip of his tongue to ask to keep it himself. But that was too much, too soon. He might as well ask John to commit to him now, get down on one knee and seal the deal. If he could convince John to keep it, then one day he might ask for this tiny piece of John to keep and hold and treasure, and remind him always to be careful, and to cherish and love him.

One day.

And then John reached up and slipped the small lump of metal back into Sherlock’s shirt pocket.

“You keep it for me,” he said with a small smile.


End file.
